David Nelson Nelson's Blog, page 11

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Staying Young

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Staying Young: Staying Young As an attempt to stay young, I emulate folks in their teens and twenties. The radio bass blares music in my truck so...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Laugh 'Till You Leak

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Laugh 'Till You Leak: Laughter is Good for the Heart and the Soul Many years ago I wrote a book titled, Stress Management: Does Anyone in Chicago Know About ...

Laugh 'Till You Leak

Laughter is Good for the Heart and the Soul
Many years ago I wrote a book titled, Stress Management: Does Anyone in Chicago Know About It? I reported there are many benefits to laughter. Some of these include; sinuses open, heart rate decreases, blood pressure decreases, "happy hormones" are released into our system, adrenaline is flushed away and sugar levels drop. Today research tells us that laughter can help with weight loss. If we don't have one good belly-laugh a day, it could mean a sign of stress.
I have always enjoyed a great laugh. My childhood idols were three fellas named Moe, Larry and Curly. I watched Moe tell Curly to "pick out three." Curly touched two of Moe's fingers and was promptly poked in the eyes. In reality he poked Curly in the forehead. But I didn't know that. To an eight year old boy, that was funny stuff. Ma didn't think it was funny when I gave my four year-old brother a blood clot in his eye trying that trick. I still smiled that night in 1957, before I went to sleep.
I was always the "class clown" in every grade I attended. Even into graduate school when I was studying to become a physical therapist. I've always felt better inside when others around me were laughing. One time my friend, Jack Kennedy was balancing on the back two legs of his chair in front of a window. I told a joke, he lost his balance because he was laughing and went through that window. Forty-seven stitches it took to seal him up. I guess we need good balance sometimes to laugh safely.
There were times when I snuck around in the dark in my neighborhood with an old broken trombone. I hid in the bushes in that lined the houses. I squawked that thing as hard as I could. People who lived there would run outside and look everywhere for the source of the ailing moose-like sound. I could hardly contain myself. I have always loved pranks.

Over the years, as a physical therapist, I went to work dressed as a rabbit at Easter, a leprechaun for St. Patrick's Day, a cow with udders at Halloween and yes, even Mrs. Claus at Christmas. My patients loved it. It's good to spread humor and laughter to others - just so they don't fall out a window.

I have driven across Florida with a blow-up doll in the front seat of my car, I once had a live chicken and a pig in my living room as a prank, I owned a skunk and startled neighbors when I'd take it for a walk on a leash every Saturday. I wore a grass skirt, wig and 'boobs' to the formal Captain's dinner on a cruise. All of these stories and many more are in my books; The Shade Tree Choir, PALS: Part One and PALS: Part Two.

I am also a performer. My show is called Cowboy Comedy Show. The web site is www.cowboycomedyshow.com I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. Our Governor and General Assembly honored me with that title. I perform across America spreading laughter. One time a little old lady came to me after the show and said, "Hey, Mister that was the funniest thing I ever heard. I tear rolled down my left leg." Hence the name of this blog post.

My point is that we sometimes take ourselves too seriously. As the saying goes, "We aren't getting out of this life alive." I believe the secret to happiness is inner peace and laughter. The "Tomorrow" we looked for "Yesterday" is "Today". I also believe that God has a sense of humor. That is why He inspired someone to invent the mirror.

Despite the physical and emotional child abuse I experienced, I used laughter as a coping mechanism. And I do to this day. My books tell about the sad parts of abuse, the coping mechanisms using laughter, the benefits of friends and success in life despite child abuse. We can choose to live with our demons or laugh in the face of adversity. I, for one, choose the brighter path.

I encourage you to suck the marrow out of life. Carpe Diem - Seize The Day.

My web site for the trilogy of my books is www.davidnelsonauthor.com

The Shade Tree Choir: Life Beyond Abuse

The Shade Tree Choir: Life Beyond Abuse: "Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining" I struggled for air and could only whimper for him to stop hurting me. I could feel my ribs...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Frogtown

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Frogtown: Frogtown “A man dies as often as he loses his friends.” Francis Bacon I could tell the two bodies lying beneath me had been friends. ...

Frogtown

Frogtown“A man dies as often as he loses his friends.” Francis Bacon
I could tell the two bodies lying beneath me had been friends. They died holding hands and with smiles on their faces. She was dressed in white and he wore all black. They were stiff. They were frozen in position. They were dead. I wondered about the white, paste-like material on the bottoms of their shoes was a stark contrast to the dirt where they lay. I couldn’t help but wonder what events led to their demise that day in May of 1956. It was at a place called Frogtown in Dubuque, Iowa.
Two hours before the discovery of the bodies, I had called Tom and Mean-Boy to see if they wanted to build another fort at Frogtown. Tom wasn’t allowed out of the house because he was caught swimming with the carp in the pond at a city park the previous night.
Eagle Point Park was originally started in 1908 and then in the 1930s the CCC constructed many of the pavilions, fishpond and other structures that still exist today. Eagle Point Park encompasses some 164 acres and is located in the North End of town off Shiras Avenue. It was there at Eagle Point that Tom swam with the fish. The goldfish located there had grown into two-foot long carp. They thrived well in the three feet of water among the numerous lily pads and other grasses. Apparently, Tom went in on a dare to make two dollars. He was caught by the Park Rangers and later released to his parents.
Mean-Boy was swimming at the 16th Street Bridge that went to the landfill and stock car racetrack. Kids from the Flats were known to be a bit daring and the swift current and whirlpools didn’t scare a single one of them. But why would it? Those kids in the Flats played baseball on both sides of the four sets of railroad tracks that ran through their dirt ball field. The place was filled with large families and the small houses emptied each morning of over 100 children in a foursquare block area. The place was filled with bullies and the younger ones learned the art of survival quickly. Outsiders knew better than to venture into the Flats, and even the least savvy child from surrounding neighborhoods knew to take the long way around the Flats.
I decided to play at Frogtown by myself. The screen door at 617 Lincoln Avenue slammed shut as I trotted between Fritz Ansel’s garage and ours. I skidded to a stop on the gravel in the alley and fired an imaginary rifle at a German sniper on top of the roof. I continued firing behind a garbage can and shot another pretend German lying in Mrs. Sand’s dirt backyard. I must have killed six Germans in the alley that day. I pretended to be in WWII like many of our fathers. Some of them were in places like Iwo Jima, Midway and Omaha Beach. For me that day, Frogtown was to be my battlefield.
We children numbered the hills one through seven at Frogtown. There were caves, cliffs, and craggy rocks below for boys and girls alike to tempt death. The sheer rock walls were some twenty-feet high and filled with holes from centuries of erosion. Those holes were perfect for a tiny hand or foot of a child aged four through thirteen to grasp and climb to the top ledge at Queen Street.
Frogtown was a small area in the North End. A study, paid with funds from the U. S. Department of Interior, reported there were six neighborhoods that comprised the North End. These included Sacred Heart, East 22nd Street, Broadway, Comiskey, Holy Ghost and 30thStreet. Frogtown was in the Sacred Heart Catholic Church neighborhood.
It was the bells of Sacred Heart that frightened me to death and made me cover my ears that day. I had turned on to Queen Street off East 22ndand from nowhere a multitude of bells clanged and pealed so loudly they resonated into each of the six neighborhoods. I leaned against Weiss Meat Market and felt my tiny chest rumble. I didn’t think they would ever quit. The church bells rang like that with every wedding.
I turned and saw throngs of well-wishers lining the steep, expansive steps of the largest and poorest diocese in our town with a Catholic population of over ninety percent. The guests threw rice, took photos with Brownie Instamatic cameras and applauded when the bride and groom came outside.
When it was once again safe for me, I returned to my combat mission. I passed two parking lots completely filled with cars. I saw several men passing around a bottle of whiskey. In the back row of cars several fathers were drinking Dubuque Star Beer from coolers tucked in a car’s trunk. I never gave the drinking a thought because almost all of our fathers and most of our mothers drank alcohol. Today, many would be considered alcoholics.
Watching those parents drinking, reminded me of a trick an older kid in our neighborhood played many times and never was caught. “Harry R.” was his name. Yep, that’s correct. We all just called him Harry R. at all times. It seemed when his parents were gone he would call the Family Beer Store and lower his voice. He told the fella answering the phone that he was Harry R’s dad. He ordered a case of Schmidt Beer to be delivered. He always ended the conversation with, “Oh yeah, I may be gone so just leave it on the back porch and I will have the money for you in an envelope.”
A car honked its horn and brought me back from my little remembrance. The wedding celebration was a couple blocks behind me, and I was back in the war game mode once again as I sat on one of several sandstone ledges in Frogtown. I dangled my little legs over the ledge as I gazed far off into many of the North End neighborhoods below.
I understood why the North End flooded during storms. I saw the hills around Kaufman Ave that shed rainwater into our valley. In the 19thCentury the area from Central Avenue all the way up to Queen Street flooded and was marshland. The swamp was filled with frogs. Hence the name, Frogtown. There was even a bar named “Froggies” down by Comiskey Park.
I had received my orders from the major about the upcoming battle. He told the troops to rest after the long haul up Queen Street. As I sat there waiting to begin shooting more Germans, I noticed the repeated side-by-side house patterns below that gave a saw-tooth appearance and dirt yards plastered one next to another. The roofs were either red or green and all had steep pitches to shed winter snows to the ground below.
I also noticed a special rock formation to my left. It was the hill we called the “Chief.” It was so named because from the side it looked just like an American Indian standing with his arms folded across his chest. Both his chin and large nose pointed towards heaven. He was a stately figure. I knew he’d protect me when the battle started because I always liked Indians.
I left my perch and headed down to the cave below. That was to be the battle site. I stopped to pick some berries off a couple bushes along one of the numerous paths made by hundreds of kids during the last century. Those same paths were used for sleigh riding in the winter.
Several of the seven hills had caves under them where boys made campfires and told stories of pirates, Indians, cowboys and soldiers. In our minds those caves went hundreds of feet under the street above. In reality, the openings were no more than ten feet. When we were kids everything we imagined seemed real.
It was hill number four where I was stationed. I called in my troops. There were privates using bazookas. One was standing and the other kneeling on his right knee. Each had the bazooka across his shoulders. There were six guys off to my left and three to my right. Each held a rifle with a bayonette. One soldier leaned forward with all his weight on his left foot and his left knee was bent. Only his toes touched the ground on the right foot. I called it the lunge position. My radioman had his machine gun dangling at his side clutched with his right hand. His left hand held the walkie-talkie to his ear. He was essential to a successful battle because he received orders from the Major and passed information to us. There were many company members lying prone in the dirt with weapons at the ready. The howitzer cannon was set in place and ready to begin the barrage. Even though we only had one jeep, I knew it would be enough for such a small battle area. I stood with pride, as everything appeared perfect. All the green men and vehicles had been set with precision.
When everything was in place I wiped the sweat from my face with my dirty white t-shirt. I turned and that’s when I came to a complete halt. I froze in my tracks.
There before me, inside the cave were the two dead bodies. Their arms were wrapped together. She was in white and he was in black. My cottonmouth prevented me from swallowing. My chest was heaving so hard it stretched my shirt tight. My legs were wobbly, my knees were bent and there was sweat running off my blonde hair dripping into the dirt below. I had never seen a dead person before.
I snagged all my toy soldiers as quick as my nimble fingers would allow. I threw them into my Roy Rogers lunch pail. I secured only one clasp and ran as fast as I could away from the carnage.

I always was a fast sprinter and that day was no different. I could have outrun a lightening bolt. When I made it as far as the backside of Sacred Heart Church, I slowed to a cantor and then a walk. I was gasping for air. I leaned down and rested my hands on my thighs pulling at the bottom of my shorts with my fingertips.
I’m not certain if it was the cussing, the crying, or the car doors slamming that distracted me. There was a lady with some kind of lace material on her head hooked to her hair with a decorative clasp. She wore a full white gown and I recognized her from before when she stood at the church doors after the wedding. Three ladies in green dresses stood next to the one in the big white dress. They were all holding one another and crying. That’s true. I heard them all the way across the street.
Car after car peeled out of the dirt parking lot. They sure were in a hurry for some reason. I stopped behind a large elm tree to listen to a bunch of old guys cussing and talking so fast that none of them paid a bit of attention to what the others said.
I did overhear one thing that rang as true and clear to my ears as the church bells did an hour before. A tall man was dressed in a white shirt with the short sleeves rolled up, and he spoke the loudest. He returned his comb to his back right pocket after running it through his hair from both sides of his head. He pulled a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes out from under his left shirtsleeve. A smoke ring left his lungs before the match was halfway to the ground. “Who in the hell would come into an empty reception hall during a wedding and steal the top of a cake with the figurines on it?”
 Wham! Slam! Ka-Bam! I felt like a switch engine crossing East 22nd and Kniest Streets hit me broadside. Those were the dead bodies I saw. Holy cow, I thought.
I knew the dead man and woman were out of place and figured older kids were hiding in another cave waiting to beat me up. That’s why I took off so fast. I thought the two bodies belonged to them. Reason took over my fright and I calmed down.
Somewhere there were some kids who had stolen the top of the wedding cake during the ceremony. Then they threw the figurines into my cave. That also explained the white stuff on the bottoms of their feet. Yep, frosting. I was a real Dick Tracy. That also explained why all those cars were peeling out of the parking lot. They were looking for the culprits. That also explained all the ladies crying.
I wiped my face with my shirt, clutched my Roy Rogers lunch pail filled 

with my army men and skipped towards home. I allowed the enemy to 

live another day.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen © In the 1950s and 60s the Recreation Department in Dubuque, Iowa offe...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen © In the 1950s and 60s the Recreation Department in Dubuq...

Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen

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Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen ©

In the 1950s and 60s the Recreation Department in Dubuque, Iowa offered summer playground activities at most schools in the city. Kids were allowed to attend these playgrounds in the mornings and then return again after supper. There were games like tetherball, ping-pong, horseshoes, foursquare and hopscotch. There were numerous contests, track & field competitions and of course baseball. Kids of the two religions mixed together during those summer months. There were the Catholic kids and then everyone else lumped together and known as non-Catholic.
I was one of the minorities and was a non-Catholic. I was a Lutheran kid with long family ties to that theology. My great grandfather was a theologian who came from Germany. He taught every course at Wartburg Seminary in Dubuque. The library at Wartburg is named after him. His interpretations and writings were followed by Lutheran confirmands in America for over seventy years. My grandfather was a professor at Wartburg for some forty years. My grandfather was a religious bigot. He detested Catholics. But then, that was the way things were in those days. The priests and nuns disliked non-Catholics. So because of religion there was a whole lot of dislike going around town back then.
Despite the Catholic clergy indoctrinating children to stay away from the non- Catholic kids, nobody listened. Unlike some of the adults, we mingled together and played together. That is until the fall each year when we attended different schools. It didn’t seem to bother my Catholic friends when the nuns walked the neighborhoods looking for kids from their parish playing with “heathens”.If they were caught mixing with us there could be hell to pay. We all called the nuns “Crows.”
Sacred Heart parish was the largest and poorest parish in the diocese. During post WWII the school connected to the Church had the largest enrollment of students anywhere in the Midwest. When the bells of Sacred Heart rang at noon everyone knew the Paul Harvey program was on the radio. Those bells could be heard throughout the North End of Dubuque. When the bells rang one chime at a time with a long gap between, that meant somebody died. They would chime to tell us the time of day or when Mass was beginning or ending. I always liked those bells.
Between the ages of about eight and twelve I would sneak into Sacred Heart to steal stick matches. I needed them to light the cigarette butts I had found in the gutters. Many of us kids smoked at an early age. It made us look tough.
There was a table up front with lots of candles and matches in the church. Mostly red candles – if I remember correctly. As a kid I figured they kept those candles lit to help keep the place warm because there sure were lots of them. I’d walk in big as you please just like I owned the place. Then I’d make the sign of a cross like I had watched my Catholic friends do before every attempt to hit a baseball. It didn’t make a lick of sense, but I figured I had better try to fit in somehow. I didn’t want to get caught behind enemy lines and have some old crow beat me with an oak pointer that had a rubber tip on the end. Oh yeah, I heard the stories from my friends. I think I’d take a beating any day from my old man rather than get attacked by a mean, pissed-off spinster dressed up in way too many clothes. I always assumed they were mad because they were hot from all those garments. I know I get cranky when I’m hot.
The inside of Sacred Heart was a mysterious place to a non-Catholic Lutheran boy. It was huge. Sometimes there was a priest preaching way up front. I could barely hear him when I entered by mistake. I miss-judged the bells and thought mass was over. In reality, it had just begun. He was rambling in a melodic chant. It was like he was trying to sing. I figured that was why there weren’t many people at mass that weekday summer morning. That guy was an awful singer.
I always plundered for matches during the weekdays. And when I entered by mistake while mass was happening, I listened to the priest jabbering to those followers of the faith. I sat way in the back. I needed to get to that front table and was forced to pretend I was a religious zealot. We sure did sit, stand and kneel a lot. I thought it was an exercise routine those Catholics developed. I called it “Catholic calisthenics.” I kept waiting to do some “Papal push-ups” but that never happened.
Catholics had a secret code when they spoke. Well, at least the priests. They preached in a foreign language. It was one I had never heard on the playground. I always wondered if the priest was telling everyone to look at the Lutheran spy in the back. I think they called it Latin. None of my friends spoke Latin, so how the heck did they know what was being said? Oh yes, they all knew the code. Surely that must have been it.  And so I waited patiently for the end of service. The entire time nervously anticipating that I might be revealed as a Judas among them.
The church had these little voting booths with curtains in the back. I assumed they must have had a lot of elections there because every time I snuck in, I saw people coming and going from the booths all the time.
I used to think Catholics didn’t take many baths or wash their faces. Whenever my escapades took me behind enemy lines I’d see people sort-a washing themselves from a big wood tub that held water. They did that after they voted. And then there were those small water containers on the wall. People would clean their foreheads with that water when they entered the church. I never did see any soap.
I also noticed how they must have been a forgetful bunch. As a kid, sometimes my teacher would pin a note on my coat so I wouldn’t forget to tell Ma something. Well Catholics had their own method to remember stuff. They used a string of beads to keep track of things. And then they kept repeating the same thing over and over. Each time they did that, they would move another bead up the string. I smiled in wonderment as even I could remember something if I said it out loud two or three times. And I was only eight years old. I think us Lutherans must be smarter than Catholics. Well, at least we have better memories.
Now in the 1950s and 60s it was a common site in our neighborhood to have doilies on the ends of the davenport. Mothers thought they decorated the armrests and often these were hand made. For some strange reason the Catholic women put these doilies on their heads when they went to mass. I figured they just wanted to show off their crocheting skills. I had a name for that also. I called them the “Doilies’ Dolls.” I made up lots of names for stuff back then. Why, sometimes I snuck into Sacred Heart even when I didn’t need matches. I was just looking for another good story.
There was another strange custom I observed about Catholics. It didn’t matter if it was ten below zero, raining or stifling hot, those folks stood in long lines down East 22ndStreet every Saturday night. They were going to vote. They had to do that before they could go to mass on Sunday. Well at least that’s what I figured. I saw them while I sat on the limestone wall across from Huey’s Confectionary Store smoking another cigarette butt. I remember thinking one time that I hoped they weren’t going to light a bunch of candles because I stole most all of the matches the day before.
Then one day a Catholic friend straightened me out on the whole deal. They weren’t voting. They were confessing inside those booths. Now that was really strange to me. I was told they had to remember all their sins and then tell the priests. They had major and minor sins. Why they had so many different kinds of sins it was no wonder they had to use those beads to keep track of them all. Maybe Lutherans don’t have better memories after all. There sure must have been quite a few people in my neighborhood with anxiety disorders. Trying to remember all their sins and the guilt of committing them must have been tough. No wonder their parents all drank so much beer.
When my friends would return to the wall after confessing they weren’t allowed to cuss. They had to be pure the next day before communion. Well, me being a thinking-type of kid I had a plan. I figured if the Catholics had rituals then I could start one of my own. So my goal was to get my friends to cuss after confession. I knew about anxiety disorders and wanted to help share the gift with my counterparts. I figured it would just drive them crazy if they committed a sin by cussing. I enlisted the help of my fellow heathen non-Catholics. We would taunt and tease our little buddies verbally. Sometimes we would hold them down on the grass and give then “red bellies” by slapping their stomachs with our hands. Sometimes we even had to resort to the infamous “snake bite” on the forearms. We’d sit on top of them and one guy would twist the forearm skin until a scream of, “Stop it you sons-a-bitches,” could be heard inside Meyer’s Tap across the street.
We’d let him go and howl in laughter rolling around on the lawn. While we shoved each other and slapped one another on the back, our Catholic friend would then let go with a litany of cuss words that lasted over thirty seconds. Our laughter just increased. I think cussing was a minor sin. I’m not sure.
One time my friend told me he lied to the priest. He was required to report exactly how many times he cussed. Exactly. He couldn’t remember so he lied. That too was a sin. So he used a sin to cover a sin. As I said before, there sure must have been a lot of guilt being a Catholic. I told my friend to carry one of those string of beads in his pocket to help him remember. He just looked at me.
When I was fourteen I tried to get Mary Lou Spiegelhaus to commit a minor sin. I wanted to get into her bra. I had heard that was only a minor infraction, so I assumed she would accommodate me. Nope. The crows had her convinced to join the nunnery when she became of age.  Nuts. I heard years later Mary Lou had a shotgun wedding. I think the events that led to that event surely must have been a major sin.
And so it was in the North End of Dubuque. Kids played with one another all the time regardless of what the authorities told us how wicked our friends might be.
Amen. Amen.
David Nelson Nelson

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Psychiatrist

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Psychiatrist: The Psychiatrist Lately Trixie has been driving me nuts with all of her shenanigans.   So much so that I had to ...